People often apologize for asking where the family resemblance is when I tell them that I am adopted. It isn’t awkward, or a touchy subject. It is what it is and I have always known. I always had books to read about what it means to be adopted and why I’m special. But as I grew, “special” became a curse word. Grade school kids will find any reason to make you an outcast, so being adopted added ammunition. My adoptive parents were always honest about the conditions of my adoption (that being: my natural mother was too young to support me) so I did my best to brush off the cruel remarks. In my heart I knew I was loved, even though I did not entirely feel connected.
Finding my “real” mom was not an option at that point, and according to anyone I asked, it never would be. My adoption was closed. Prior to 2011, that meant all information linking me to my alternative ending might as well have been burned and lost at sea. Of course, now that I have her in my life, I can tell a whole new version of that story. But the road to now, as the only adopted child of six, was a challenging one. For a long time I struggled with the need to belong; then one day I decided I had no other choice but to start the search; and finally I could make those connections that were missing before. To say that one belongs is sort of a vague description of what that means. A quick Google search told me that the definition of the word belongs is to “be rightly placed in a specified position,” (Google). To me, when I was young, it meant needing something I did not have. It meant having someone that looked like me, understood my feelings and thought processes, and had similar interests.
I was the only non-athletic kid of the six of us. I had major academic issues, which affected no one else in my family. My skin was Irish,; pale and freckly, compared to their easily tanned Czech skin. I wanted to travel, get tattoos, hang with the “wrong” crowd, and think about college later. My siblings wore slacks and got engineering degrees; they’re clones of our parents. Of course, there is absolutely nothing wrong with engineering degrees OR preferring to stay off the beaten path. But my poor parents had no idea what to think when they realized how differently I operated, in school and in life. I tried to do things the way they’d preferred. I played a very short-lived, embarrassing season of soccer; and failed miserably at learning to play instruments; and signed up for math club (which I was actually pretty good at); and though I felt completely uncomfortable in slacks, I wore them occasionally. I eventually went to college, once it had become my own decision, and chose a school I knew they’d be proud of. But try as I might, I still did not quite feel accepted. That is a hard feeling to explain because I think my family, and certainly my friends, really did accept me. But, as I have come to find out, the acceptance I needed was internal. Once I realized this concept, I discovered how strongly I felt about searching for my biological mother. For a couple of years, I tried to broach the subject of the search with my mom. It was immediately clear to me that I caught her off guard the first few times, and that she was not yet ready to think about it. I would lie off it for a while. I cannot totally explain what her hesitation was because she is not much of a sharer. We have since talked briefly about how it’s all soaking in, and she soundsed genuinely happy for me and completely unthreatened. She has a cautious and protective nature, so I can only assume she was concerned about the outcome. Once I met my husband, though, the urge became stronger than I could resist, regardless of the possibility of end results.
“Well, now I want kids!” I thought. “And will I live a long, healthy life for my marriage? I need to find my health history, at the very least.”
Once again, I brought it up to my mom, asking if she had any copies of the adoption papers
